


Trapped (again)

by hauntedpoem



Series: Maglor through the ages [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief, Maglor regrets, Pre-The Hobbit, Solitude, Survival Skills, Thranduil is a scary Ada, Young Legolas, no light no food you're dead, trapped in a cave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:44:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Maglor finds himself near the Greenwood. Chased by hordes of orcs, he crosses the Enchanted River only to find himself trapped in the dark.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written a while ago, this was an excuse for me to write Maglor venturing into the Greenwood, getting into trouble, meeting a child Legolas and becoming trapped once more in the Elvenking's caves.  
> ... oh, and survival!  
> -  
> Also, check this Maglor & Thranduil & baby Legolas having a meal together--> [Over the fire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8349853).

By the time he reached the river, the rain intensified. Droplets the size of small stones fell into the dark water with the speed of unleashed elven arrows. The forest was in a tumult, then a wailing sound pierced his ears. The most terrific phenomenon assaulted him, whirlwinds of dead leaves and fragmented twigs, dust and stone rising in the air, the earth shaking and creaking as if Aulë himself had commanded it. He’s seen something similar before and the memory filled him with dread. It was the unappeased wrath of the Valar.

And then, there were the orcs from the North.

It didn’t take long to decide. Looking back, it seemed like the orcs lost track of him. Chilled to the bone and slick with water, he started working on the raft, his hands moving frantically. Two logs of putrid wood held together by rope – he threw it into the black water and it managed to float to the surface just so.  Soaked and pressed by time, he didn’t tarry for long and flung himself on the raft. Having little visibility of his surroundings his hands searched the ground for a sturdy branch and used it to propel his floating improvisation. He pushed, and pushed and pushed. 

Surprisingly, the river was calm like it was but a sunny placid day. The reality was that a devastating storm was approaching.  Everything was a messy, sodden blur around him but as he looked down trying to steer the raft, he witnessed something that left him mouth agape. The ropewas undoing itself from the two logs, slipping from his own fingers as if it were a cold, slippery snake.

“No! No” he uttered a silent scream and tried to keep the logs together but he felt his strength leaving him little by little. Everything was a haze.

Now mist was rising, white, and dense, like smoke. It clung to his lungs and pierced his eyes. This was madness, this was worse than orcs. He was halfway through the river and letting the rope slip, he mounted one log just to keep him afloat but by the moment he touched the water, he felt sleep claiming him. 

He fought tooth and nail to move his arms and legs to swim. Faster and faster, as if through a sea of tar, until his feet reached the bottom and water claimed him to his neck. Something scaly slipped between his feet, he lost footing but only sheer terror impeded the sleep to take him then and there. With his last strength, he pressed to the bank of the river and crawled on the muddy shore. The fog grew thick now. Still crawling, he took shelter under rocks and then fell unconscious.

*

When he opened his eyes, Maglor was surrounded by darkness. At first, he thought he was dreaming and then the thought that death seemed much more plausible. He tried rising from the ground and felt only pain. Was he in the endless void already? A shiver broke down his spine and his skin broke into goosebumps. He was drenched. The place was filled with an oppressive silence, except for the pitter-patter of water.

Drip-drip-drip. And then nothing. After a while, it started again. Drip-drip-drip. And then quiet. 

He held his breath in and tried moving but it hurt and hurt and hurt and Maglor knew he must have broken something. His arms and legs were filled with soreness, heavy and swollen. He crawled and crawled like vermin, and tried to adjust himself to a standing position. He hit a wall of rough stone and rested his head.

“What have you done, Feanorion?” he wailed in a strangled voice. “What have you done to yourself?” and then laughed mirthlessly.

With great difficulty, he took off his saddlebag and let it roll down at his feet. He undressed in slow motion and to his surprise, he didn’t feel cold. No. he was alive. Alive, somewhere underground. Of course, he remembered the caves. Mirkwood’s halls. But those were supposed to be further down. How did he get here, he had no idea. Just as his fingers danced lightly over his swollen ankle, registering the damage, an astounding noise filled the dark, blinding space. The earth was quaking, the stone was cracking. Maglor could barely move and when he felt small rocks raining down on him, he just shut his eyes in acceptance of his fate. 

However, the end didn’t come. The cave fell silent again and darkness ruled once more. An upheaval from deep underground shifted rock, moulded it and tore the earth apart.

Soon, Maglor had found that there was no escape. He moved slowly, naked and injured.  A cold, crystalline spring erupted explosively from the stone. Part of it collected into a lake, impenetrable, frigid, and then divided into a stream, this one flowing weakly, trickled with faint movements between the granite rocks. 

In time, his body mended itself. He ate what little food he carried in his satchel and drank from the spring. He fumbled through the dark until he memorised each indentation in stone, each sharp corner, and each pebble. This was his void, he realised later. Soon, he was walking naked, groping no more at the walls, having learned the contours of his cell to perfection.

 He remembered stories of the elves waking up at Cuiviénen. But they had the stars. Oh, how he cursed those. How he cursed the Valar and later, how he cursed his own father, his dead brothers and himself.

Not knowing whether it was day or night, not knowing of the seasons around him, he was part of Arda, yet secluded, a prisoner of his own doing. Memories were soon replaced by boredom and Maglor arranged and rearranged his few possession on a slab of stone. His travelling clothes, his knives, his useless sword. Boots, breeches, a cloak. He usually slept on the cloak and he preferred that to wandering around his prison. 

He lost himself in memories of old, then, in colour and in sunlight. His lyre, mangled though it was, he mended, fingers familiar with every inch of it. He gathered driftwood from the water and sorted it to dry. For hours to an end, Maglor put all his effort into making a small fire. Just as he suspected, he was trapped. He climbed the rough rock and patted every nook and cranny. He found several entries blocked by boulders. They were impossible to steer. He walked in circles, familiarising himself with everything all over again. How different it was now. It was almost beautiful.

Then hunger hit him and no sleep and no music could appease it. Maglor crawled to the river and drank and drank some more but water alone did not fill him. He felt weak, consumed until he reached the lake. He walked around it and its perfectly round shape made him suspicious of what could lie deep into its waters. He prepared his knives and tied them on debris, making harpoons. The water was cold, unwelcoming. What was fear of death when faced with acute, inexorable hunger?

He postponed it until he felt too weak to even fall into reverie. Dark thoughts filled his mind and something dreadful and dangerous was swimming alongside him. He told himself he did not care and just plunged his knife until the creature, all rubbery tentacles had given up on him. Something else nicked his side and Maglor plunged again his knife. A fish, at last. Gasping and shivering, he returned to the pebbled shore, grasping the slippery fish. Feeling its scales, he used his knife to remove them and gut the creature and soon, he was roasting it on fire and eating it like a savage. It tasted bland but appeased his pangs of hunger. There was something terrifying in the lake and Maglor didn’t want to end up as its dinner.

A long time must have passed because Maglor had to cut his nails several times. His hunting in the lake went well enough to allow him to fall into reverie instead of writhing in pain from the hunger.

His long hair, he cut short and unsuccessfully tried weaving into a net. All his thoughts reverted to survival and mastery of what lurked deep into the lake. Many times he plunged, armed with knives and determination until he could no more. He reached the surface over and over again and filled his lungs with water before submerging. And then, he saw. Luminous, surreal fish and twinkling stars, movement of colour and light. He felt it, the current and for a moment, he went with it but soon, he needed to breathe and so, he gave up and reached the shores again.

It was useless. He either lived here, monotonously until he ran out of willpower or he died trying to move with the underground water current. Both options filled him with dismay. That’s when he went back to his lyre and started strumming. Time was all he had in this unbearable darkness and Maglor filled it with song.

*

He was in reverie when it happened. The noise jolted him awake and instead of dread, he felt excited. Maglor dressed, gathered his cloak about him, packed his knives and carefully held his lyre. The ground was cleaving under him, rock bursting with power and water surging forth. Everything started filling with water, cold, unbearable. Maglor reached the highest point, held until his hands became unfeeling, simple instruments of survival. Then the ceiling trembled and something crashed violently. Water burst forth, unbridled now and for the first time in years, Maglor saw light. 

Everything was touched by it. The elf looked around and his eyes hurt at the vastness ahead of him. stalactites and stalagmites created an enchanted architecture. The spring coiled at his feet and the lake changed shape, melding with the river. He could see fish, darting like silver arrows before him, algae and debris. 

He ran to the source of the light and ran and ran. This was it! This was it! He screamed, he shouted. Hope filled him up.  And hope was taken again. The light was far, far from his grasp. Another boulder, another massive rock blocking a potential entrance. Maglor cursed and cried and climbed until his extended hand was out in the open but his body trapped in the cave.

No. This was crueler. He climbed and started driving with all his force into the stone. To no avail. Such force was needed and everything he attempted was futile.  He could see the sky. Pale grey like ashes. It was overcast. Gauging from the temperature outside, it was warm and Maglor knew it was already summer.

He shouted and screamed. And when he exhausted himself, he fell into a deep, fitful sleep and upon waking up, he climbed the rocks and screamed again. For help, for someone, for something, anything. He looked at the night sky, his hands and legs straining to keep him upright. Varda’s stars were glimmering. He did this for many days and started keeping count by scratching a wall with one of his already blunted knives. It was more painful now. He lived in a larger cage, had light, yet his despair grew by the hour. Every day, he would scream and shout until his voice gave up, his vocal cords damaged and inflamed. He screamed until he could no more.

This was his punishment, indeed.

*

It was the third row he started scratching now. His hair reached his shoulders. He looked skeletal, as per consulting his reflection in the water. Most of the days he spent playing his lyre or listening to the wind outside. He caught mice, moles, once a rabbit. Maglor would not think himself superior to these animals these days.

 With his hand, he reached for grass and soil and with little effort and because of the rain, he managed to bring some seeds to grow in the cave. Pathetic as it must have been, he continued relying on fish and river clams. His clothes were tatters but Maglor insisted on mending them by sewing and stitching with threads of his own hair and a sharp fishbone. Out of boredom, he made a spear and out of necessity, a flag, which he used as a signal in case someone would ever pass by. 

In three years, no one did. Oftentimes, the cloth he used came out in tatters, at the mercy of the elements. So passed spring, summer and autumn. The winters were always colder.

It was winter now, and Maglor prepared another scrap of his cloak to be used as a signalling flag. He shouted but gave up after a while. He remembered his last winters before this mess began.

 All he did was wander about, from place to place, restless. There was no way he would ever fulfil that oath and he found himself not even wanting to. He spoke little and his interaction resumed to buying or selling and moving forward, always forward, until he reached the North. He travelled West until he reached the shores he knew by heart.  He reached South and travelled deserts. Reached Mordor. Travelled East and barely made it out alive. Killed orcs and men, killed beasts. 

He found himself having a purpose then. And on a whim, he wanted to see the forest, the caves, the Woodland borders. Not fearing elves, men or even orcs, he pressed forward until he fell and trapped himself into a hole in the earth.

What an embarrassing way to spend time. Fishing, swimming, talking to himself, relieving his childhood and his adolescence. Trying to forget the face of Feanaro little by little, the smiles of his brothers, the words of the damned oath.

“Be damned!” he shouted to the darkness.

 Bored and trapped, he started humming and strumming the chords absentmindedly, a new creation of his greeting the frigid winter air.

Every day meant progress and its power was in the repetition

 

*

That’s how he found him. Oh yes, for Maglor was meant to be found, after all.

His face was as luminous as the pale moon on a clear night. Eyes like the stars, his hair like the shade of Telperion. Aghast, Maglor looked up into his face and drank in the foreign presence. He managed a faint gurgle. Words would not come out and at last, remembering fragments of Sindarin, he forced out a greeting. How unreal it all seemed. The stranger looked at him curiously, shouting something, shocked as well. He threw him his own flag, now frozen cloth and broken wood and spoke.

“Hello?”

The voice of another never sounded so beautiful and Maglor, a man starved for sound relished in its crystalline reverberation.

“Hello,” he replied, more vigorously now. “I've been trapped in here,” he continued. “I fell and somehow… somehow the earth and rock shifted, blocking my exit. I have been here a while. Just help me get out, help me!”

The elf looked at him with surprise, a young, innocent face. Probably of Telerin descent. How many of them did he slaughter in Alqualondë? His memories, bloody and ugly as they were re-emerged at the worst moment in time.

“Who are you?” the elf shouted at him and the voice reverberated on the walls. The echo was deafening and Maglor covered his ears. “Easy now.” He had to give him something. Of course, there was always a risk involved when telling him his real name but Maglor opens his mouth before thinking things through.

“Maglor.” He gulped. There, it escaped his lips. “I am… of no importance… but I am called Maglor,” He cringes immediately at the sound of his name. The other elf smiles at him and shouts animatedly.

 “Legolas!” The shout deafened Maglor for a while. The echo is too loud in his ears, it almost hurts. The pale haired elf is young and childish. He smiles a youth’s careless smile, radiant and unburdened. Maglor has to cover his eyes as his elven-light invades the darkness of the cave.

“Get me out of here, Legolas! Please, get me out of here!”

*

Maglor had seen explosions before, but never one like these, so close to him. Rock splintered and hit him but he felt no pain. All he could think of was freedom. When he reached the outside world, it was cold, snow everywhere and Legolas, shorter than him by a head, was looking at him in awe and with the giddiness of a child. Grateful for the warm clothes he’d been given, Maglor gave up any chance at conversation and worked the tunic and the cloak on his body. He must have looked frightening, he supposed, but Legolas did not look frightened in the least. “You are lucky I found you!”  He said in a hurried tone. His accent was different than what Sindarin sounded to him for the past millennia.

“We have to go back! If Adar finds out I am missing, he’s going to be upset.” Frowning slightly, Maglor followed him, still waiting for an explanation. He left behind, years of captivity, a cell obscured now by boulders and earth from the explosion. The youth was fast on the ground but faster still climbing the trees. 

 “Come now, we can’t afford to be seen!” he motioned and Maglor was fearful for a moment. He was sure that they were entering the Halls of Mirkwood. He followed Legolas blindly and his eyes marvelled at the magnificence of the place. Pillars of stone resembling majestic, ancient trees and intricate pathways were ahead of them. 

He briefly thought of Doriath and Nargothrond. What was with the Sindar elves and caves, anyway? It was not dark, but a sweet light suffused the whole place and for an instant, Maglor thought he saw guards, tall, armoured guards, bearing spears and sharp swords, but Legolas snatched him and pushed him into a dark corner, covering his mouth with his hand. The look in his eyes was one of fear and excitement. Maglor could live like this forever if only he could stay away from thoughts of his dark cell in the ground.

He was dragged through labyrinthine corridors and winding staircases. Everything was carved into the stone and lamps were lighting the way. He lost track of time and his wearied legs could barely keep up with Legolas’ youthful speed. Miraculously, they reached their destination and Legolas turned to him bearing a huge smile on his face brought him to a simply furnished room.

“You must be quiet, or my Ada will be very upset.” Maglor frowned at the candid warning. Who was this most feared and revered Adar?

“He doesn’t take well to strangers," said Legolas in explanation. "I must hurry, he will call for my lesson!"

Then, the youthful Sinda turned and locked the door behind him. And thus, Maglor found himself trapped, once more.

~

fin

 

 

 


End file.
